The Bad Habit Drug
by violentskyes
Summary: Those days you cant forget, the habits you cant break, the cycle that wont stop, and the emotions that roll over again...


Notes: Yes, it's a personal short story written by me, of me. It  
-does- speak of love, but its not based on some 'tragic' breakup. It's  
more of a friendship and a life I was forced out of and thrown in to a  
new one. One particular place in this new life reminds me of the old  
one I wish I could have again. Though I know that standing there every  
night that I can in the same manner and wishing wont change it and  
send me back, I wont stop, I'll always go. And were I to really  
return, I know that life would be left far behind. It's a lose/lose  
situation.  
  
Snow. I could always look forward to it. The chill scraped at my  
throat and froze my breath in to silver clouds that drifted lazily to  
gray, bloated clouds, shimmering before dissolving. The frost lining  
my footsteps glistened, something I could leave behind for a short  
while, a memory, one of the many I knew not to last. But still. it  
would have been there, left by me.  
  
Life like snow, knowing foot prints would disappear. Will they  
remember me then, when I'm buried and my blood settles.? Flesh cold  
and joints stiff? Will they only remember if I die standing here,  
beneath the dying glow of a pale streetlight in the cold, the only  
warmth to be the cigarette I had forgotten, hanging from my slack lips  
until now?  
  
My thoughts churned and I blinked around the cutting haze of  
cigarette smoke, suppressing a grimace from the cheap lipstick that  
tasted like wax. It was like we were born, placed here like pieces of  
a chess game to play, age and die. Snow fell from those silvery gray  
skies to melt. The cold came to kill the trees and rob them of their  
leaves, leaving them naked and hunched in the wind.  
  
Typically, the cold could have been described to cut like a  
knife, clichéd, and I liked to focus on the darker things in life,  
alone with no one but the voices I had created. And those voices. they  
had evolved with new voices, different opinions, a slow comfort of  
hostile suggestions that murmured in a quiet buzz between my ears.  
  
Try to think like a poet, but I figure this would mean so much  
more, this could be told and formed, shaped and molded in to some of  
pure, sweet elegance is only you could hear the low droll of my voice,  
even as I narrate whilst I type. But we cannot that. it doesn't  
matter.  
  
I was not looking for warmth, still feeling the cold yet pushing  
away for the cold climates did not concern me, dragging on the  
remainder of a cigarette, I shivered. That would kill me one day,  
ignoring the cold.  
  
Standing beneath the same dying street lamp in front of the  
familiar abandoned apartment building with its broken and jagged  
windows all over again. Bits of old newspaper fluttered across  
unevenly paved cobblestone street, tumbling end over end, past the  
graveyard and its shaggy carpet of tattered patches of grass and black  
dirt, catching on my boot and the knee high rusting gate that used to  
be black but now a peeling gray.  
  
It was a dirty habit, wait in the for nothing because that old  
life had left so long ago, drawing on the cigarettes that I knew would  
eventually kill me if the cold didn't, thoughts shifting like gathered  
dust -though they were fairly more complex than that- to the scars you  
left me that rendered me emotionally helpless, a child all over again  
and I still didn't want anyone to hold my hand.  
  
Times up. By now we would have argued and gone our separate  
ways, so I'll imagine. Back home and still alone.  
  
Wondering how many pills I had left: Go home and sit in the  
dark, curled and hunched in to myself, playing the same records over  
and over again, a dark lovesick ritual that couldn't be broken because  
I liked feeling the pain, and I liked hating it. I liked being the  
complicated, overly dramatic, self-placed loner that I felt I should  
be after it all.  
  
Door shut tight. Curtains drawn. 11 pm. Disconnect the phone,  
stare at the pain-relievers, though after the first time I'm afraid of  
them and they sit on the shelf, reminding me. Reminding me. Alcohol,  
whatever alcohol is close. I need it. Well, no.  
  
Not wanting to move from the dark hideaway, not wanting to be  
seen in such a pitiful state -I'll admit- of shameful desires.  
  
It's the same routine every night, an addiction, almost as great  
as the one I had for you. In the end, one of them will kill me. The  
addiction to the scars you left -I just couldn't let go of you yet ,  
the cold, or the drug. It was just like the snow. To meet you, to love  
you and lose, craving for you, drying for you.  
  
Just like snow, just like snow. 


End file.
